


michael: a collection of works

by pineapple_utopia



Category: Gleannes, Original Work
Genre: Emotional Abuse, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Neglect, Nightmares, POV Third Person, Self-Indulgent, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:22:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26095555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pineapple_utopia/pseuds/pineapple_utopia
Summary: I'm obsessed with my character, Michael Jolliner, so I've made this work of assorted things I've written featuring him. In each chapter, I'll have notes on whether it's an au, hypothetical, or canon, and other relevant details. You're under no obligation to care or even enjoy any of this, it's of my own making for my own self-indulgence.
Relationships: Michael Jolliner/Carmen Malavé





	1. Just A Dream

**Author's Note:**

> This is a canon thing that happened, and likely something that happened a couple of times with a few different variances. Michael just doesn't sleep that well.  
> Here, Michael is anywhere from 25-28 years old while Carmen is 24-27.

There is a bike. The bike moves on it’s own accord, wheels spinning and leading to wherever it wants to go, land whizzing by. A park, a school, a throng of suburban houses. His hands are on the handles, but they turn on their own. Putting force against them only causes the handles to jerk swiftly back into whatever position they’d rather be in. Leaning off in a direction makes the bike itself lean just as sharply in the other. Squeezing the brakes does nothing at all, and the bike moves on just as quickly as if he had done nothing. It doesn’t seem like it matters if his feet are on the pedals or not. The speed is on the whim of the bike. There’s nothing he could do to take control from it, to decide where to go or how fast. In some sense, he can tell the bike is being spiteful, and is ever more spiteful whenever he tries to have any input. The only option is to sit and watch things move on, move past, move by, move away. He knows the bike belongs to him, but he never asked for it, or wanted it, or even decided to get on. There’s no rational explanation for how he knows, but he knows it to be true far deeper than any fact.

Does he recognize the face of that stranger they passed? Or that one? They all blur together, missed. The world is messy and clouded.

A jolt hits the bike and starts a bone-shaking rattle as it drives over a gravel road, hopping over stones and slamming back into the rough path without regard for safety. It makes his teeth chatter and his jaw hurt, hitting him with a growing unease that grows bigger with each hop. The wheels come down towards the gravel and then they miss the ground entirely, slipping right past the road into a space that doesn’t quite exist, falling, wheels spinning forever into nothing, and then-

-balanced on a dark ledge. Standing all alone with toes peeking just over the smallest edge. There’s empty space above and behind and far too much empty space below. The silence swallows everything up. He does not breathe, but the air is thin beneath his fingers and the sky is a relentless gray, spread out in it’s vastness. Up there is only a limitless drab. Down there is hazy, cloudy, and a dreadful mess of colors that might not be colors at all, only an impression of a feeling of a guess that is so, so far away. Could it be ground? For sure, it is a miserable end that is stretched out between miles of air, nothing but a heartless landing.

Moving back into a safer position isn’t an option, simply isn’t possible. There’s barely enough room for him to stand, and so an inch from falling is how he has to stay. A wind picks up, a wind that whistles and whines in a way that almost sounds like a voice. It’s not happy. 

Is this okay? This doesn’t feel right. There’s that voice talking, now yelling. It’s still going, so that means this is normal, right? The yelling is _at_ him, did he do something? A wrongness, a fear, a discomfort sits nestled within his chest. He knows he didn’t, that none of this happened because of him, there’s no ounce of control he even had the option to exert, but the shouting keeps going. If it’s still there, that must mean he did, right? That would be what makes sense, but…

He tries to speak up and tell the wind that he didn’t do anything, but the wind blows over his words, sweeping them away to somewhere where they can’t be heard. It grows louder, and it is angry. He shouldn’t have spoken, he shouldn’t have tried. But this is scary, and worrying, and oh so dizzying, and with a decision he knows won’t do anything, in fact, might bring the wind buffeting against him all the more, he shouts and tells the wind that he didn’t choose to put himself here, that being angry at him doesn’t fix anything, that this is unfair. The wind keeps picking up, only builds and yells, and refuses to listen. Prepared to make his throat go dry, he opens his mouth, but before even a word leaves his lips the ledge cracks beneath him. It lurches sickeningly, crumbling away in seconds and sending a terror zipping up his spine. Balance lost, safety gone, pieces swept away by the still howling wind, pulled down by a weight, that unease, that fear, that worry. With nothing to hold him, he’s falling, he’s falling again, falling faster, wind whipping around and its getting bigger and louder and angrier, its howling and screeching and yelling and screaming and wailing, and he can’t hear a thing, his breath is lost in the wind, the wind is making the fall faster, he’s falling faster, and the ground is coming, it’s coming it’s coming it’s coming toofasttoofastTOOFAST-

Michael jolts awake. As he clutches at his chest, the sound of the heartbeat in his ears and the heave of every breath he’s trying to catch is deafening. Desperate and confused, he tries to separate what never happened from what’s currently going on. Sight isn’t something that is immediately acknowledged, but eventually the subtle shifts in shadow and the quiet of the room becomes clearer as his heart slows enough to let these facts process. Something moves beside him, creating a slow shifting of the covers. As a hand presses gently against his back, he turns his head to try and see who’s there. There are only rough shapes and dark values to be made out. 

“Hey... Are you okay?” Carmen mumbles. 

“I’m- I’m fine,” Michael says. He swallows hard, feeling like his throat is far too dry and the rest of him is far too clammy. 

“That’s a lie,” Carmen takes his hand away and starts to sit up, still drowsy. 

“Then why...” Abandoning the question, Michael instead tries to relax, putting his hands in his lap as Carmen leans against his shoulder.

“What was so bad it woke you up…?” Carmen clumsily reaches out with comparably smaller hands to grasp at Michael’s, holding them with a warmth Michael can’t help but appreciate. 

“It was just a dream. Nothing to worry about,” He murmurs.

“But it was still bad,” Carmen says.

“Maybe. I guess.”

“You guess? What happened?”

“Well, I woke you up.”  
  
“That means it was _extra_ bad. What happened?”

“There- there was some wind. Bad feelings. It just... reminded me of… some not great things.” Michael sighs. 

“You’ve got to be a little more descriptive,” Carmen says.

“It’s- um. Sounded like her. A bit. The wind.” Still sleepy, still having woken up a few minutes ago, still having this conversation sometime at 1 am, Carmen has to frown and think about who he could possibly be talking about. 

“Her...? Do- huh?” He does not succeed.

“Nevermind. It’s not a big deal.”

“Michael…” Taking on a more somber tone, Carmen squeezes his hands in a hope to get him talking. Michael stares at where he’s sure his hands are, even if they can’t be properly seen. Wouldn’t it be nice to be able to sit and drink up this feeling forever? This softness? He sighs, worn down by the guilt of admitting his problems and fears, as irrational as he knows it is.

“It- It’s. Mm. Marilyn.”  
  
“That’s… your mom.” He knows he’s right when Michael groans and doesn’t bother to offer up a verbal response, tugging his hands away from him in favor of wrapping his arms tight around him. They fall backward into the pillows. Carmen fidgets to get more comfortable, ending up cuddling contentedly against his torso. He reaches to fiddle gently with a lock of Michael’s hair.

“Do you… want to talk about that?” Carmen mumbles, voice softer than ever.

“Not really,” Michael says. 

“Mm… In the morning, then.” 

“I don’t-” 

“I know, stupid. And I know your dreams are always sucky but… you gotta sleep. And you gotta talk about stuff.” He exhales, already half-asleep himself. Knowing this, Michael simply hums in response. Talking about things is… terrifying, to put it shortly. While rest is important, insomnia is a bitch and he’s well aware he won’t be able to sleep for another hour or so. But at the very least, he can let the person sharing the bed with him rest. 

“Carmen?”

“Mm?” 

  
“Love you.”

  
“Mmmm.”


	2. the sound of rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carmen dying is canon, though Death's appearance is hypothetical. The characters are from different universes, so they've never met. Nice to think about, though.  
> Michael is 28 years old.

The sound of footfalls slaps against the pavement, fast and desperate. Michael’s breathing is weighted, chest heaving with every stride. Street signs meld into each other as he passes by, people’s faces disappearing among the walls of buildings and their peering windows. His legs ache, his lungs burn, and his head feels lighter than it should be. Even still, he keeps on running, turning onto a pathway not from any conscious choice, but only from the need to keep going, to keep running away. Its easier to sprint than face anything else. 

The environment around him starts showing more green, filled with trees, shrubbery, and the occasional bench. As he stumbles down a hill, the fatigue making itself increasingly more at home starts drawing his attention. It takes greater and greater effort to lift his limbs, and once he reaches the foot of the hill, it’s all he can do from stopping himself from collapsing on the spot. Searching for breath, he tries to focus his vision as he rests his hands onto his shaking knees. 

A spot of water hits his hand. There’s a moment where he isn’t sure what that means, but then he starts to notice the tap of rain hitting the ground in occasional drops around him. The water feels cold, in stark contrast to the red flush of heat he’s managed to work up.

Gulping for air, he stands up stiffly and straggles over to a nearby bench, falling onto it with a relief that’s unmissable. All at once, every ache and pain makes itself noticeable. Sweat rolls off his forehead. There’s the pain in his shoulders, back, and the headache that hasn’t gone away in years, the burning in his calves and thighs, the dry pain in his lungs, and the hot, stinking feelings in his chest. The cloud of exhaustion lets him pretend they aren’t there.

The rain starts thickening, spreading droplets every few feet. It’s relaxing to watch in it’s repetitive sound and movement, hitting leaves, wood, dirt, and the skin of any park-goer still about. Michael takes a deep breath, wiping the hair out of his face. As the space between each drop narrows and the water sinks into his clothes, he cools down. It brings a sense of freshness, and space for him to think. Why did it have to happen? Why does it _always_ have to happen? Can’t he be selfish and get to keep one person? One person at all? Is it really so much to ask? 

Shaking, he puts his head in his hands. It always seems trivial, to feel bad about something that affects someone that’s really as unimportant as he is, but it’s nothing short of painful. The rain remains unsympathetic, making his hair flatten against his back and his clothes heavy. He did shoot out the door without changing into a single thing made for running. A knot builds in his throat, coaxing out tears. Worn out from all the distance, all he can do is sit and cry. There is no more fight, no more running. Only racketing sobs, surrounded by the splattering rain. It hides away any fainter sound, including the soft tearing of fabric. 

“Oh,” A voice remarks, “This is rather new.”

He doesn’t bother to try and look. Their speech is the only thing that lets him know they’re even there. Beyond the smell of petrichor and the faint sheen of metal, there is little.

“Are you alright?” Instinct tells him to get up and run again, but the remaining aches beg otherwise. So he tries to quell his hiccuping, and to get somewhere where whatever he says won’t be too quiet to hear.

“T-take a fucking guess,” He says.

“That would be a no?” Their voice is calm, touched with a delicate concern. It sounds like it comes from above, directly to his right. 

“Fuck _off_ ,” Michael says, ever so polite. There seems to be no response other than the rain, but he holds his breath, straining to listen. Rain thumps against wood, and rattles against metal. It doesn’t sound like whoever is there has left. Picking his head up, he catches sight of the dark cloaked figure, several feet taller than he is, skeletal wings folded behind them. Immediately, he tenses. Now sure that he sees them, they move to sit down, putting their hands on their knees, and making sure their posture is non-threatening. 

“You’re- What- what are you still doing here?” He notices that they aren’t made of bone, but of a dull metal of similar color. Two yellow lights are set into their face in place of eyes. 

“I happen to find the park rather nice. Besides, the plants I can see from sitting here alone are unlike any I’ve seen. It’s rather intriguing. Is it planet exclusionary? Regional?” Their tone is still light and gentle, as if their conversation partner hadn’t been tossing out angry remarks ever since they arrived.

“It’s- It’s a town thing,” He says. 

“I see. What makes it so?”

“You wouldn’t believe me,” He mutters darkly, letting his arms rest across his knees.

“Perhaps not. But I would still like to hear what you have to say,” They say.

“Sure you would,” He says, light sarcasm in his tone. 

“I would.” This short sentence makes him go quiet, not believing it, but unable to come up with anything that could properly refute it. Michael glares at them, but they only watch calmly in turn.

“Aren’t- Aren’t you death? Are you here to kill me or something?” 

“I am Death. But I am not here to kill you, or anyone, for that matter.” 

“Then what-” He sniffs, wiping a hand across his face. “What are you _doing_ here?”

“Does it matter?” Again, Michael finds himself going quiet, searching for a proper response. He guesses it doesn’t, not really, but it’s not something he wants to admit.

“Then- can you- can you tell me something?”

  
“I can certainly try.”

  
“Why- why did-” Choking on his words, he looks down into his lap. “Why did he die?”

Death looks at him for a few moments, and then out towards the horizon. 

“What sort of answer would you like?” 

“The-” Michael stops. “What kind of answers are there?”

“There’s the ones to make you feel better, and the one that is honest. Though the honest one could make you feel better, I really have no way of knowing until it’s been said.” This surprisingly thoughtful response makes him look at them again, staring at them with significant doubt. The hood of Death’s cloak droops over their face, soaked by the rain.

“I- the honest one.”

  
“There is no reason. Not really. There is a cause, and there may be reasons you tell yourself, or present themselves as the reasons, but they don’t matter in the end. It doesn’t matter at all.” 

“No wonder people hate you,” He mutters, brow creasing. 

“That’s the way it happens to be, doesn’t it?”

“I guess,” Michael says, quickly feeling guilty. He told a stranger that a bunch of people hate them, and for a reason. Even if it is death incarnate, he feels like an asshole. He’s been acting like one since they showed up.

“I suppose it’s natural,” Death says. “Though it does make me more grateful for those who decide to humor me.”

“Humor you with what?”

“Oh, various things. Stopping by for a bouquet of flowers, asking for a muffin, having a talk in the rain. Though a fair bit of them perhaps only do so out of wariness.” 

Another one of those things that make him wonder what the right thing to say is. Wary? Is this about him specifically? 

“Can you even eat?” As soon as the words come out, he doubts them. Is that rude to ask?

“Oh, no. But I have a friend who does, and they’re always hungry.” He decides not to pry about who the friend could be. What kind of friends would Death even have? The silence hangs between them, rain continuing to patter. His gaze drops to the ground, watching leaves droop under the weight of pooling water. It’s hard for him to decide how he feels about the conversation. On one hand, he finds that talking to someone so relaxed is making him feel so as well, to an extent. On the other, it’s Death, and he started talking in a very uncomfortable mood. He may still be so. Feelings are hard. It seems easier to try and escape than to face them, but he guesses they’re one of the things you can’t outrun. It just feels better to talk about things that don’t matter rather than things that do.

“Are you alright?”

“What?” Even though their voice has been nothing but calm, the sudden question startles him.

“I asked earlier, but some time has passed, and I’m wondering if you’re still feeling upset.” 

Great, more questions about his feelings. As if he didn’t have enough already. 

“I dunno.” 

“Would you consider it an improvement?”

“Not really,” He says. Still sad, still bitter, still angry, still hurt. It’s… only nullified. For now.

“I see.” The two continue to sit in silence. As they sit and watch the world go on, the rain begins to ease up. There is no clear sky, but it is no longer pouring down. Death stands, the ends of their cloak twisting about. They pick up their wings to avoid scraping them against the back of the bench, folding them with practiced ease. The movement is entirely silent and eerily smooth.

“I should be going.” Stepping forward, they hold up one arm and extend a finger.

“Wait-” Their arm lowers, and Death turns to look at him one last time. Michael bites his lip, retracting the hand he put up. 

“What is it?” 

“It’s nothing.” He says, looking away. Death waits for him to say something else, but turns back to what they were doing when it never comes.

“Goodbye, then.” There is the sound of fabric ripping, and then nothing. When he looks up again, they’re gone. There’s disappointment, from them leaving and from him refusing to say anything. He leans back against the bench and heaves out a deep sigh, dragging a hand down his face. God fucking dammit. 

  
  
  
  



	3. Thanks Mom, My Therapist Will Be Hearing About This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A teenaged Michael has a perfectly pleasant and humane talk with his mom. This is a canon occurance.
> 
> TW: Emotional abuse, heavily implied neglect, homophobia

“. . . found dead at Sarsaparilla Drive.”

The front door swings open and closes shut with a slam. Marching inside with a backpack slung over one shoulder is a blond, short-haired teenager. With steps louder than they need to be, he brings himself into the living room. When he drops his bag on the floor with a thunk, the woman seated on the couch doesn't react, eyes glued to the TV. Michael props his elbows against the back of the couch, holding his head in his hands. 

“What’s new on the news?” He asks, watching the camera pan over a shot of a smashed car on the road. The disinterest in his tone is clear. After all, he knows full well his mom won’t offer much in return to his efforts. Maybe she’ll be in a good mood today and he’ll receive a semblance of healthy conversation. The hopes aren’t high.

“Your boyfriend died,” She replies bitterly. Frowning, Michael stands up straight, hands gripping the couch. That must be a no on the good mood. Somehow, he isn't surprised.

“My what?” He scoffs, trying to catch up to what she’s implying. “I don’t have one. If I did, I’d have a mob behind me, pitchforks and everything.” 

“Not anymore. And good riddance.” Ignoring his satirical remark, Marilyn leans forward to grab her glass off the table. 

“I don’t- I still… don’t know who you mean.” Despite his words, Michael gets the feeling he does know who she means. Something sour squirms in his chest.

“Sure you do. Adrien.” She leans back into the couch, bringing the glass to her lips.

“He’s not- what? I saw him just-” Yesterday. It was yesterday. Everything could be fine, but he hasn't seen him today. It was strange when he hadn't shown up to school, but it could easily be because he caught something and was sick at home. Marilyn motions loosely towards the TV.

“You shouldn’t be shagging around with boys anyways.” He swallows past the lump in his throat, looking down at the floor. They aren't even dating. People like to spread rumors and joke, but- Adrien would never like him that way. He knows that. They're best friends, and he can’t be gone. He can’t be. He just can’t. 

“What do you know about boyfriends?” He mumbles, “Last one you had ran away from you.”

Marilyn's grip on her glass tightens before she sets it down on the table with a bang. 

“I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that.” 

"Like you haven't done that before," He says. "How do you even know it was him?” 

The words he says are antagonizing, biting.

“You walked in after they listed his name.” 

“It could’ve been a mistake! No one’s perf-” 

Marilyn turns around to drape her arm over the couch and stare him directly in the eyes. “He’s dead, Michael.”

“I-" Stared down, he falters, and lets his hands fall by his sides. The floor takes his attention so as to avoid seeing her face. "You're lying."

The sour thing in his chest grows heavier, using claws intended to hurt.

She lets loose an exasperated sigh. “It’s the way life is for us. You know how often I’ve told you this.” 

Pressured by the weight of the recent news, Michael bites his tongue. He tries to recall the last thing he told Adrien. No, he shouldn't think like that. It’s fine, they'll see each other next week- or better yet, today. It’s not like Marilyn bolts the windows or even checks if he’s in his room.

“You need to learn to deal with these sorts of things. Everyone’s either going to die or leave you.” 

“Wow, thanks for the reassurance.” He snaps. 

“I’m just looking out for you. You’re going to have to learn that sooner or later, like I did.” Turning back towards the screen, Marilyn looks away. A scowl sets into his face.

“What? That's it? You learn my best friend died and your first instinct is to remind me anyone I care about will die in some horrible way or another? Sounds like you’re getting mom of the year.” Even if her response is fury, Michael stands and waits for it to come. As the living room is filled with the buzz of an ad, Marilyn makes no move to show the words were even heard. The air is silent, allowing plenty of room for the TV to promote a new brand of toothpaste, showing off smiling supermodels. Thick with tension, the room feels far too still. Michael crosses his arms and huffs.

“Of course,” he mutters, “Dunno what I expected.”

“You know what?" Using her arm as leverage, she stands. “I’m tired of these little sarcastic comments you think I can’t hear.” 

With a hard, stone-faced expression, Marilyn turns around to face him. Her dumpy stature does nothing to reduce the intimidating power of an angry adult.

“I’m sick and tired of this ungrateful attitude and the cold shoulder you give me. You’ve got this entire house to live in, and-” 

“The cold shoulder I give YOU? That’s fucking rich!” Michael barks out a humorless laugh.

“Yes! All you do is cause trouble and sulk in your room all day! Which I own, by the way!”

“Oh yeah? I’ve TRIED, and STILL TRY to get your lousy face to look at me, but the only time THAT happens is when I’ve screwed something up!” 

“Which you’ve been doing extraordinarily often! You used to be better than this! Now you’re just a problem!” Even if they weren't shouted, the words would still sting. Michael chokes, struggling to work past the tight knot in his throat.

“Come on, speak up!” 

“Why- why the hell do you think THAT IS?” As it goes up with his incredulous tone, his voice cracks.

“I’m not sure! Why don’t you enlighten me, since you’re so smart?” Seizing the back of the couch, she leans forward and leers at him, making Michael take a hurried step back.

Through gritted teeth, he bites out a response. “I bet you could figure SOMETHING OUT!” 

“Why not spare me the trouble? You’re sure intent on GIVING me it!"

“Which is the ONLY TIME you’ll even notice me!"

"It's the only time you make worth noticing!" She yells.

"Why? What did I DO TO YOU?” 

“What HAVEN'T you done? You can take care of yourself, I don’t need you picking fights because you think it's FUNNY!” 

“What could I _POSSIBLY_ FIND FUNNY ABOUT THIS WHOLE THING?” His arms gesture wildly, face burning with anger. As his vision blurs with water, Michael clenches his jaw and glares at the woman in front of him.

She snaps out a laugh and leans back, tucking her hands into her arms with a sharp shrug. “You tell me! I ought to just DROP YOU OFF at some stranger’s house and have them deal with you instead!” 

“WHY DON’T YOU? You're ALWAYS COMPLAINING ABOUT ME, WHY NOT DO IT?" Each painful word has to be choked out of his mouth. Shaking with rage, Michael takes a step towards her and balls his hands into fists at his side. 

“ARE YOU TOO WEAK? TOO _SCARED_? OF WHAT? BEING AN EVEN _WORSE_ MOM? MAYBE I'LL GO JUMP OFF A BRIDGE AND MAKE _EVERYTHING_ _ **SO MUCH** BETTER FOR YOU!"_

“Don’t you dare speak like that to me.” The ice in her voice is chilling. Startled by the change in volume, Michael drops his shoulders. Any retort is killed by the iron gaze boring into him. Not a word has to be said. Michael ducks his head, quietly cupping his elbows. 

"This conversation is over," she says. Letting her hands fall away from the couch, she walks out of the living room. Michael is left alone with the TV, shedding it's harsh light and burbling on without any sense of sympathy. A hollow pain sits in his gut. 

“So stupid,” he grumbles, reaching up to wipe the tears off his cheeks.


	4. A hill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A nightmare that Michael had once or twice or thrice with maybe a couple changes every time it reoccurred. Who's to say, really?

A hill. 

Trees cluster behind you, crowded at the hill's peak and curving around where you sit, forming something similar to an alcove. 

Below is a town that seems impossibly far, 

and yet, 

feels like it could be reached in a single step. 

Distance is weird in dreams. 

It's not Gleannes, but you recognize it.

The sky is clear.

Only light, wispy clouds dot across it.

May as well not be there.

The wind blows lightly.

It whistles through the trees.

The leaves rustle.

Most of all,

you hear,

water.

It bubbles and runs.

It’s not outside of you.

It’s not anywhere you can see.

You hear it rushing in your head.

It splashes about.

Sounds angrier than last time.

Your limbs are stone and your skin is marble.

You are still.

You wait.

You don’t know what for.

You never do.

You just wait and something happens.

Everything up until this point is the same,

every time.

You wait.

You see water pooling into the town. 

Trickling into the roads, 

splashing against doors,

pouring into people’s yards,

building up and up.

You wish you could run,

To warn these babbling people of the water at their feet.

But,

You can’t speak.

You can’t move.

You can’t breathe.

You are a statue.

Built to stay on the hill where you are now,

frozen,

always having to watch them go.

And know there’s nothing you can do.

Guilt floods you as much as water does the streets.

It churns, 

choppy,

restless,

lapping against the street signs and pouring into open windows,

waterlogging all it touches,

and soaking things into a bleary mess.

Everything has to submit to the pull and draw of water.

It’s stronger than you are,

stronger than anyone is,

overbearing,

an unstoppable force.

Beautiful,

but so powerful,

and so,

so deadly.

It floods the town,

filling every building with gallons upon gallons,

draining any hope you could have for anyone,

anyone at all who could survive.

You can see the water creating cracks in walls,

running at them with angry waves,

knocking buildings into rubble that disappear below the murky surface.

It boils.

It boils and bubbles.

It boils and bubbles and pops.

It’s angry.

It’s flooding.

It drowns.

People have died.

It’ll keep happening.

The flood has hidden the town beneath it’s cloudy waters,

raging against your hill,

pulling grass from the dirt,

muddying up with the soil it washes away from beneath you.

Thunder rumbles,

but the sky is still clear and blue.

You feel the ground, 

unsteady and bloated.

Crumbling away and running into the water,

boiling and hot,

slapping against what little hill there is left,

reaching out to you,

to show you all the destruction it caused,

enveloped within it.

You sink.

You couldn’t move if you tried.


End file.
